


If Either Remembers In The Morning, They Never Let It Show

by kam



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, s3 spoilers kind of?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-06
Updated: 2014-05-06
Packaged: 2018-01-23 18:51:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1575866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kam/pseuds/kam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>so no lie i actually started this the second i saw reaper's picture (which was seriously i think three months ago) and i am just finishing it now. OOPS.</p>
<p>PS seriously, if you somehow exist in the sherlock fandom and DON'T know reapersun, go perv her stuff immediately.</p>
<p>like, the john and sherlock in my head when i write this crap isn't even mf and bc. it's the john and sherlock she draws. doing weird things to each other. and i'm not sorry for that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If Either Remembers In The Morning, They Never Let It Show

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [If either remembers in the morning, they never let it show.](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/48545) by Reapersun. 



It was the shots.

Was it the shots?

I’m pretty sure it was the shots.

Mostly sure.

The shots, then.

Hmm?

 

Right. The shots were what did it.

 

“I have an international reputation. Do _you_ have an international reputation?”

“Mm, no, I don’t have an international reputation.”

“No. And I can’t even remember what for. ‘S… Crime. Something like that.”

 

The stairs, innit? _Perfect_ place for a bit of a kip. Can’t imagine _why_ we never thought of that before, would’ve done wonders on those late nights, trot in round four or five, tuck in for a quick kip before doing the steps. Bloody idiots, us.

 

“No, you’re not a vegetable.”

“It’s your go.”

“Uh, am I human?”

“Sometimes.”

“Can’t have sometimes, it has to be, um…”

“Yes, you’re human.”

“Yes or no, ok, and am I a man?”

“Yep.”

“Tall?”

“Not as tall as people think.”

“Mm. Nice?”

“…ish.”

“Clever?”

“I’d say so.”

“Am I important?”

“To some people.”

“Do ‘people’ like me?”

“Eh, no they don’t. You tend to rub them up the wrong way.”

“Ok. Am I the current King of England?”

“We… You know we don’t have a King?”

“…don’t we?”

“No!”

“Your go.”

 

My chair seems to have… Stopped. Before I did.

Lucky, then, that there’s Sherlock’s knee, right there, just so, and I can sort of…

Oh. Well, that. Is that..?

 

“I don’t mind.”

“Am I a woman?”

“…yes.”

“Am I… Pretty? This.”

“Beauty is a construct based entirely on childhood impressions, influences, and role models.”

“Yeah, but am I a pretty lady?”

“…I dunno who you are, I dunno who you’re supposed to be.”

“You picked the name!”

“Yeah, but I picked it random from the papers.”

“…you’re not really getting the hang of this game are you, Sherlock?”

 

This, though, here, my chair is _precisely_ where it’s meant to be now. I can lean back, maybe close my eyes a bit, and listen.

Sherlock is going to take the clues, he’s going to.

He’s going to _deduce_.

He’s going to do…

Whatever it is he does.

What does he do?

He’s going to find the answer.

And I will listen.

 

“So I’m human, I’m not as tall as people think I am, I’m, I’m niceish, clever, important to some people, but I tend to rub them up the wrong way.”

 

A pause.

He knows.

 

“Got it.”

“Go on, then.”

“I’m you, aren’t I?”

 

“What? No,”

where’s my chair gone, then? Too far, it’s too far forwards, back, that is, _I’m_ too far forwards, and there’s Sherlock’s knee again, trusty old friend that it is, yes, I can brace my hand there, good.

“You’re _you_ , you bloody great idiot, you’re,”

ah, see, there’s the arm of _his_ chair, and I can brace my other arm _there_ , that’s perfect, like that, and he’s… His hand is right there, then, near mine, alright, and he’s going to…

“I’m not niceish,”

his words taste like whisky and his breath is in my mouth.

“And I _am_ as tall as people think,”

his voice grumbles past my lips and down my throat, settling in my chest and making my heart beat too fast. That’s not good, that. He’s going to have to…

“Taller.”

His lips seal over mine, trapping his words in my chest, and the whisky that’s still on his tongue comes off on mine, and _that_ is going to throw his calculations all to hell, isn’t it, because that was meant to be _his_ whisky, not mine. I am going to have to give him some of mine, is the only thing. Only thing for it.

 

“Sherlock?”

“John.”

“We,”

“I don’t.”

 

He laughs so hard he spills his drink down my neck.

 

“John! My calculations! Come here,”

he drags me forward, divesting me of my jumper in the process, and tilts my head down. I protest, naturally, by resting my forehead against his shoulder and closing my eyes as he licks at the nape of my neck, catching the droplets in my hair, checking behind my ear, thorough, Sherlock is.

“It’s run all down your neck, John.”

He begins at my neck and I begin at my waist, and somehow, between the two of us, we undo the soiled shirt and it goes the way of the jumper.

 

It’s chilly, here, and Sherlock’s jacket has got to come off, because damned if I’ll be chilly on my own. Thinks he’s so bloody clever, doesn’t he, but there goes his jacket, and that crash was almost certainly not important, because Sherlock has decided to go after the whisky with his teeth, hasn’t he, up and down my neck. And there are so many buttons. He will simply have to

 

“John, you mustn’t.”

“I…”

“You simply, like _this_ , you see, and… I’m not good at sewing buttons back, John.”

He looks up as I look down, and we laugh into each other’s mouths until his lip catches between my teeth, and if nothing else, I want to remember the sound he makes, the gasp, the _surprise_ of it, because nothing surprises Sherlock Holmes, nothing except me.

Our lips sway into each other, tumbling together and staying, warm and familiar, a grounding point as everything else fades in and out.

“John, I don’t…”

His words disappear, I steal them away, licking along his teeth, checking for more. His hands grip my waist, too tight, too warm, and one of us is rocking, maybe both of us, but I need to…

I need to…

 

“John?”

“Sherlock.”

“This is… Is this?”

“Yeah. Yeah, it is.”

 

He’s got…

Got one of his clever, clever hands down there, right, between us, doing _something_ , and…

 

“John?”

“Sh, love, sh…”

“John, is this alright?”

“It’s fine, love, it’s gorgeous. You’re perfect.”

“I don’t… _John_ …”

 

“Christ, _Sherlock_.”

“ _John_.”

 

I’m too old for this. I am. I really, really am.

He’s slid down a bit in his chair, and my knee aches where it’s pressed into the corner, but I don’t actually want to move, to get up, leave the damp, sticky warmth we’ve created here, just ours.

He’s wrapped his arms loosely about my waist, also, and that’s.

 

“John. Don’t marry her, John.”

“I’m going to marry her, Sherlock.”

“But _why_.”

“It’s what you do, innit?”

“It’s certainly not what _I_ do.”

“Not you, never you. I know that. But I mean.”

“You don’t have to, John. You don’t have to.”

“I want to, Sherlock. It’s time.”

“Please, John. Please, don’t marry her. Stay with me.”

“Sherlock, I…”

“Please.”

 

“Please don’t leave me.”

**Author's Note:**

> "and if either remembers in the morning, they never let it show."


End file.
